Ethereal

Three books and Life

Because to fall out of love with you,
meant falling in love with life again.
For I, am alone now. I grow my own hyacinth.

I want to let that black rest on my nails and I don't want the society to tell me otherwise.
And if poetry makes me gay,
then let me fall in love with the man who's writing this and I'll break his heart just so I can forever be cursed by those poetry he writes about me.
But, I'll love him for always,
my darling he'll be.

Because I am ethereal,
like a dandelion, watching the moonlight dance in the river, as it sways along to the night breeze.

Left my blood running in my diaries,
as the fear of growing up stayed forever as a fear...
...until the boy in the mirror actually grew up.
And so I started wearing a shirt short enough to expose my arms.
My thin arms.

Stitched up in flesh were three poetry books, to complete one poet.
And someday three other books will do the same.
Until then, I shall disappear into a field of wild flowers,
near the lake, near a poet's grave.

Grey clouds can take over.
But I shall dance in the rain,
as I found a lover, a soul mate, and a friend, in one's own reflection.

Now, when I'm soaking wet,
in heavy breaths,
the evening sun can take over, and I'll be sitting there, on wet grass;
turning the sky into another poetry,
for this life of mine, has already turned into one.